


To Find the Words

by cornelius



Series: Rexford Chronicles [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornelius/pseuds/cornelius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under King Michael's reign, Rexford is a city divided between the rich and everyone else, where magic is both a sought-after commodity and everyday part of life. But something dark is growing in the city and not even Rexford's great fabled walls can't defend against it.</p>
<p>Castiel should be dead. But since he's not, he's got some decisions to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Find the Words

A voice whispered in Castiel’s head in an unknown language. The words were strange, but Castiel knew their meaning.

_Blood. Magic. Sleep._

The voice sang as the mirror shard cut Castiel’s thigh, its jagged edge ripping through muscle and tendon and vein. Blood made the voice happy. It laughed in Castiel’s head, cheered the way blood welled up around the wound and oozed down Castiel’s leg. Castiel started to lose feelings in his extremities and he knew he was in bad shape, but the voice told him it wasn’t so. 

So he believed the voice. He was fine. And if he was fine, he had to save Sam and Dean and Charlie. The voice yelled to Castiel, urged him on as he drew the banishing sigil in his blood. Blood made Enochian stronger, made it work better, made it work faster as it drew power from the person whose blood it was written in.

Castiel convulsed as he felt the magic rip energy from his body. He was so tired and the taste of blood lingered on his lips, warning him, but the voice crooned him to sleep. 

That’s when something strange happened.

Castiel was asleep but his body moved. It moved and it _spoke_ and it _healed_ him. Now that Castiel was asleep, he could see the blood on the floor, the blood on Dean’s hands, the blood that had only just stopped flowing out of him. He had been dying. But he wasn’t anymore.

The voice had spoken, not just in his head, but through his mouth. And it had _saved_ him. 

“I’m not unconscious,” he groaned, his own voice surprising him as he spoke. He wanted to move, to make sure he could control his body again. But he was too weak, and Balthazar caught him as he fell. Darkness took him again. 

His hands were not his hands. They were older, more lined, with a dusting of fine blond hair. He turned them over and they moved like they were his hands, Dean gripped them like they were his hands, but Castiel knew that they were not _his_ hands. 

Someone moved him and he heard a loud squeak then people talking and shouting. A wooden bench vibrated under him and the world around him hummed. He heard voices, but they were not in his head. They said his name in hushed tones. 

He thought it was weird that he always seemed to be able to pick his name out of conversation. Did that happen to other people? If he started talking about Dean, not _to him_ , not _addressing_ him per se, would Dean catch his name from where ever he was?

“Shh, Cas,” something that sounded like Dean’s voice whispered in his ear. It felt like Dean’s lips against his earlobe. He wanted Dean to talk into his ear more often. He wanted _Dean_ in his life more often. 

“Yeah, me too, buddy,” Dean said, “I like having you around, too. But you gotta keep quiet for now.”

Hands grabbed him everywhere. He tried to hold up his own weight, he wanted to pull away from the hands, but his knees buckled and the hands only gripped him tighter. 

They took him to an unfamiliar room and put him down on a bed. They pushed him down. He didn’t want to be pushed down. They held him down. He didn’t want to be held down.

_“Please_ , Cas.”

Dean’s voice startled him. And then he smelled Dean’s cologne: something citrusy and earthy and clean. He buried his head in the thing that smelled like Dean—oh, it was a pillow. Was he in Dean’s bed?

“Get some rest, Cas,” Dean said, worried and far away. But Castiel didn’t think about that for long before he fell back asleep.

**%%%**

Castiel’s hands were not _wrong_ anymore. He turned them over and even in the last light of the day, he knew they were his hands again.

It was his first moment of clarity since he’d been attacked by the poltergeist. 

Bits of memories floated to him, but it was hard to piece them together into a coherent whole. He got the big moments—he had been bleeding to death, he stopped the poltergeist, he was in someone’s bed—but he had no idea how he went from one to the other. 

And no idea why he wasn’t dead. He _should_ be dead after sustaining the kind of injury he had. But he wasn’t, and that frightened him.

A knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts. His shoulders tensed and he gripped the blankets, looking for a weapon if necessary.

A muffled voice spoke on the other side of the door. “You awake, Cas?”

It was Dean, and Castiel unknotted his fingers from the blanket. 

“Yes,” he called and his throat felt rough and scratchy. He didn’t know if it was from disuse or screaming. “I’m awake.”

Dean pushed through the door with a tray in his arms. He balanced the tray on one arm and used his now free hand to slide a rune over on the metal strip that ran from near the door to the glass globes overhead. The room filled with a soft, warm glow and Castiel could now see that Dean had a bowl, filled with something fragrant and steaming, and a glass of water on the tray. Dean also had a towel thrown over his shoulder and Castiel found the whole image _charming_. 

Dean placed the tray over Castiel’s lap and handed Castiel the towel as Castiel propped himself up to a quasi-sitting position. Dean fussed with a few pillows and put one behind Castiel’s back and _oh_ that’s just what he needed. 

Dean handed Castiel the spoon, but Castiel ignored it and touched the ceramic soup bowl instead. The sides were mostly smooth, with some carved decoration the top, and painted in a slightly metallic dark blue. Castiel traced the decoration around the rim and was surprised to feel lines of spellwork. He closed his eyes and felt the ridges and divots that made up the magic. It said _protect_ and _whole_ and _don’t break_ and there was even a line to keep the bowl cool to the touch. 

“This bowl is incredible, Dean,” Castiel sighed and brought the bowl up to his lips. He drank in a mouthful of broth and hummed appreciatively.

“Oh? That? Yeah, I uh,” Dean averted his gaze, “I made it.”

Castiel watched Dean closely as he shuffled around the room and fiddled with the knobs on the dresser. Dean was either unused to compliments, or he felt he didn’t deserve them. Either way, Castiel wondered if Dean really knew the value of his work.

“Could I buy some of these from you? How much would you charge?”

“Buy _my_ bowls?” Dean looked shocked. “Cas, I was just messin’ around when I made that. No one wants to buy my bowls.”

“I do,” Castiel said and Dean stared at him. Castiel held his gaze firm. He wanted Dean to know that he’d _meant_ the compliment and meant that Dean’s work was valuable.

“Goddess, you’re serious,” Dean mumbled. Dean rubbed his chin as he trailed off, the red blond scruff rasping under his fingers. Dean furrowed his eyebrows, thinking of something. Castiel’s breath caught. Dean was just _so_ beautiful.

Dean grinned and Castiel knew he’d been caught.

“I’ll think about it,” Dean said. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked pointedly at the bowl. “Now are you gonna finish that or just keep starin’ at the _bowl_?”

There was no heat in Dean’s words, but Castiel sheepishly took another drink. Dean smiled warmly when Castiel looked at him over the rim of the bowl. 

Castiel didn’t know how much bowls cost, but he was sure he could afford even bowls as carefully crafted as this one. He’d never worried about money—not the way Dean and Sam had, not even the way _Balthazar_ had. 

Shame suddenly congealed as a thick weight in his gut. Hunting ghosts, real or fake ones, was Dean and Sam’s livelihood, and he’d almost gotten in the way.

“I’m sorry for coming along today, Dean. If I’d’ve known there was real danger, I never would have put you in this position.” 

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Dean said, “We thought it was gonna be a simple bag-n-tag. I mean, it’s weird that Charlie didn’t see how strong it was from her locator spell, but those can be kinda chancy…”

“No, I mean,” Castiel shook his head. “I misjudged you, Dean. I thought I knew _exactly_ what I was getting into, but I was wrong and I put everyone else in danger, too.”

Dean turned to look at the wall again, a muscle twitching dangerously in Dean’s jaw. The atmosphere in the room had changed in an instant. Castiel’d said something wrong.

“You mean you thought it was gonna be all fake,” Dean said, hard-edged, “So what were you gonna do if you saw me and Sam baggin’ up all the valuables? Help us? Turn us in?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said defensively. 

“Cas, you’re the law in this city—” 

Castiel snorted. The law was not nearly as _absolute_ as it had been in previous generations. And Castiel’s job—as the _law_ —was mostly to ride his horse around the noble neighborhoods and look good. Michael said it made his everyone feel more secure—everyone with money that was.

Dean frowned. “If we’d’ve been anyone else, you’d’ve hauled us away in shackles if you even _suspected_ we were gonna _rob_ someone’s house. And after today, I can’t pretend anymore that what we’re doing isn’t _dangerous_ , Cas. My job—my _life_ —is not something a prince should get mixed up with and—”

Dean was saying something, but Castiel couldn’t hear it over the blood pounding in his ears. He threw off the blankets and put his bare feet on the cool floor. His back was to Dean, but he could feel Dean’s eyes on him. He stood up and walked over to the window in just his long white shirt and pants. The sun was completely gone now, and the sky was a rich, dark purple. Stars winked at Castiel from their place in the firmament, and Castiel methodically picked out the summer constellations. The Leviathan in the south just above the horizon. The Wolf-Man in the northern sky. The Great Hunter …

And hand landed hard on Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel whipped around. Dean stood next to him, tall and firm and stony-eyed. 

“It’s _safer_ this way,” Dean urged, “For all of us. You have plausible deniability when Lord Bonham and Sir Robert get run out on a rail, and our _operation_ is under less scrutiny without a royal tagalong.”

“So, now what?” Castiel snapped, looking at the stars, “I just _poof_ out of your life? That seems ridiculous.”

Dean crossed his arms and shrugged. Castiel wanted to punch him.

“Did you ever stop to think that it might be _safer_ with me around?” Castiel asked. Dean opened his mouth to retort, but Castiel cut him off. “Lord Metatron almost _exposed_ you as charlatans and frauds—”

“Charlatans?!”

“And if I hadn’t been there,” Castiel continued, ignoring Dean’s outburst. “he would have turned you away. Or worse! He could have reported you to the garrison and then I would’ve had to come down and take you away in shackles.”

Castiel moved into Dean’s space and Dean took a step back. “We don’t know that for sure—”

“And it’s not like I’m even next in line to the crown, for the Goddess’ sake. I have _four_ older brothers and sisters. I’m the youngest child. I’m _allowed_ to be spoiled and a little eccentric.”

Dean took another step back and bumped into the nightstand. Castiel kept advancing. “But your job—” 

Castiel trapped Dean against the wall, his arms coming up to box him in. Castiel felt the rise and fall of Dean’s chest as it moved against his own. 

“I think helping to rid the city of dangerous magical items falls under my official duties.”

He stared at Dean and Dean stared back. Castiel knew Dean was afraid. If Castiel screwed this up, there might some scandal and then life would go back to normal. If _Dean_ screwed up, Dean could lose _everything_. 

But Castiel had power and resources, even if they were attached to a mostly ceremonial position at court. He had to do _something_. 

Castiel pleaded softly, “Let me help you.” _Let me be useful._

“What if—” Dean looked up and shook his head. “There are too many _what ifs_ , Cas.”

Castiel dropped his arms from the wall and threaded his and Dean’s fingers together. 

“Dean, I’m not proposing marriage or even that we run away from our duties and families in the name of some torrid love affair. I’m just asking you to _stop_ pushing me away.” 

Dean’s fingers tightened around Castiel’s. 

“Sam’s not gonna like it, but …” Dean groaned and leaned his head back against the wall. “I’ll talk to him. You’re asking me to go against public opinion here.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, relieved. It was a heady feeling—making a decision for himself. “I want to be your friend, Dean. And I want to help you in any way I can.”

Dean blushed at Castiel’s frankness, but Castiel wasn’t done. “And I think you should kiss me.”

Dean laughed. “Kissing might just be the most dangerous thing about keepin’ you around.” 

He leaned in and Castiel met him halfway. One of Castiel’s hands untangled from Dean’s and moved up to cup Dean’s jaw. Dean lips were soft and pliant under Castiel’s and Dean sighed into the kiss. Castiel would be content to spend a whole day or two just like this—kissing Dean, letting his fingers wander through Dean’s hair, feeling Dean’s heart thud in time with his own.

“Good,” Castiel whispered, his lips brushing Dean’s.

Dean moaned and gently nudged Castiel toward the bed. Castiel gripped his shirt and started untucking it from Dean’s breeches, but Dean’s hands stopped him.

“Get some rest, you maniac,” Dean said affectionately, “We don’t want you to overexert yourself and pass out and make it impossible to sneak you into the palace.”

Castiel arched an eyebrow and smirked. “You think you’re that good?”

“I know I am,” Dean said with a flirtatious smile, “And I also know that you need to _rest_. We’re smuggling you out just after midnight, so be ready.”

**%%%**

The guardroom was nearly empty when Castiel snuck in—unsurprising for the time of night. The large room was almost silent, the only sounds soft murmurs from men across the room, the roar of the fire and the steady clack of Castiel’s boots on the stone floor. He moved purposefully between the twin rows of long wooden tables where the city garrison took their meals with the castle guard. They stood, for once, undisturbed by rowdy soldiers, their benches neatly tucked in and surfaces clear of food and drink.

The way to the armory was guarded by two young men, both doubled over laughing at a joke one of them had made. It was hardly the appropriate stance for either of them, but Castiel saw one man hold his fingers over a piece of paper attached to the wall—so they weren’t as careless as they appeared. Both men noticed him, but once they realized he wasn’t an intruder, they dropped the joking act. They stood up straight and nodded to him, but made no move from their posts. 

The only other occupant of the guardroom was an old soldier staring blearily into the hearth fire from his seat in a bedraggled armchair, one splinted leg propped up on a stool. He leaned on a crutch as he tended to the fire, stoking the dying flame. The wood popped and hissed as it was moved to feed the flame, and the room brightened ever so slightly. Castiel could make out the familiar black stone above the hearth, darkened by centuries of soot and ash, and the heavy limestone mantle overflowing with various squadrons’ keepsakes and knick-knacks, tournament trophies, and favors from lovers. 

The soldier raised a mug to Castiel by way of acknowledgement, and Castiel paused. From the twinkle in the old man’s eyes, the whole garrison would know about Castiel sneaking in by morning. The man winked and it became clear that he thought Castie’d gotten ... _lucky_. 

It would be really nice if the whole castle would stop caring and speculating about his sex life.

Castiel nodded a small acknowledgment to the old man, giving him a tight, small smile. The man laughed, sure that Castiel’d given him all the confirmation he needed, but Castiel ducked his head and walked to a side door. He had to get out of there before the man started asking him too many questions.

On the other side of the door was almost total darkness. A narrow hallway wended in front of him to the eastern stairs, moonlight gently streaming in from windows its only source of illumination. The passage was used mostly by kitchen staff and guards coming or going from their duties, so it lacked the new magic globes the rest of the palace had been outfitted with. 

Castiel put one hand on the wall and felt his way up the stairs in the darkness, stubbing his toes only once on a loose board. A cat darted out in front of Castiel’s path, and Castiel narrowly avoided trampling it. It hissed at him and then disappeared into the shadows. Treading carefully, Castiel moved silently up the remaining three flights of stairs.

The dark and the quiet was a welcome reprieve after a day of noise and chaos. Castiel sunk into the darkness, letting it envelop him and quiet the turbulent storm in his mind. He didn’t have to think about Dean or the poltergeist or the strange voice he thought he heard in his head—he could just _be_. 

He focused on his breathing, the steady in and out of his breath to the rhythm of his feet on the wooden steps. He focused on pull and push of his muscles, starting to protest the long climb. He focused on the feeling of the cool, smooth stone under his fingers, anchoring him to the path in the dark.

His fingers found wood where they expected stone—Castiel’d made it to the door that opened on to the wide hall that led to his rooms. He pushed open the door, its rusted hinges roaring in the silence of the night. 

Immediately, he noticed two figures illuminated by handheld glowing orbs stood at attention outside his door. The soft light from their lanterns made it hard to make out details, but the silhouette of blades strapped into the hilts on their forearms was unmistakable. So was the deep purple and pearlescent ivory of their livery—King’s Guard colors.

Castiel considered turning around and going back to the guardroom for a moment. Maybe they hadn’t seen him …

“Your Highness!” one called softly, speaking in a stage whisper, “Your presence is urgently, uh, requested. Your brother—His Majesty—awaits your return—”

Castiel fought back a sigh; this guard must be new. 

“Thank you …”

“Daniel,” he supplied, “And my partner is Adina.”

“Thank you Daniel and Adina,” Castiel said and fitted his hand around the feathery wing that made up one door handle. He pulled open the door just enough to slip in.

Castiel squinted and blinked as he stepped into the room. Compared to the night dark hallway, Castiel’s main room was too brightly lit. White flames burned from candles squeezed onto every available surface and the overhead orbs glowed too intensely. It almost seemed like there were no shadows left in the room.

Michael looked oddly disheveled in just a shirt and trousers as he stood on the far side of Castiel’s table, tracing an avenue on map of the city with his fingers. His dark hair stood up in odd directions, like he’d been tugging on it just before Castiel arrived. There were also stains on his fingers and shirt—dark red and brown—like he’d gotten ink all over his hands and wiped it off on his shirt.

Castiel had rarely seen him so _not_ composed.

Still, his eyes were the same as ever. Michael’s eyes were always cool, always calculating. He looked down at the map of the city like it was a game he was wanted to win, and he had an ace stashed up his sleeve.

“You were missed at dinner,” Michael said evenly, not even looking up from the map. He drew a line from the Falls to the castle, a path eerily similar to the route he and Dean had taken.

“My apologies,” Castiel said, “I was … busy.”

Michael looked up at Castiel, meeting his eyes for a heartbeat before speaking. “So I’ve heard. You were shirking your duties.”

Castiel fought the urge to snap to attention. Michael wasn’t his superior officer, but he acted like he was. 

But Castiel didn’t owe Michael an explanation so he offered none. He wouldn’t let Michael trick him into giving away information.

Michael quickly realized Castiel was not going to be forthcoming. He frowned then clarified: “Your duties involved hunting ghosts?”

Castiel didn’t miss a beat. “It is my duty to ensure public safety. It is not out of place for me to make sure that these _ghost hunters_ are who they say they are. You’ve never bothered me about vetting private investigators before. ”

Michael moved around from the far side of the table. He walked to Castiel with open arms, likely a placating gesture. “I just didn’t realize it was _also_ your duty to aid in destroying homes of noblemen.” 

Castiel rolled his eyes.“His home was not destroyed.”

“He’s demanding reparations,” Michael countered.

Castiel blocked, “Isn’t that what he has _insurance_ for?”

Michael’s eyes turned ice cold and Castiel tried not to shiver. Conceding anything to Michael was dangerous. It was how Castiel agreed to take his stupid, pointless job in the first place. But fighting Michael was probably more dangerous. There were things Castiel’d lost …

Either way, Michael always won in the end. Best to take the safer route.

“Fine,” Castiel said, “I’ll pay for the damages. I know a talented magician who works out of a shop on Beacon Street—”

“Lord Metatron says he would prefer to retain his own magician—especially since he’s seen the company you keep.”

Michael gave Castiel a pointed look and Castiel frowned. “Just have him send me the bill.”

Michael nodded and picked up a glass of wine from where it had been placed on the map. He sat in one of the wooden chairs around the map table and sipped his wine lazily, obviously waiting for Castiel to say something else. If he thought Castiel owed him an apology, he had another think coming.

Michael’s eyes bored into Castiel. Michael wanted Castiel to sit, to drink wine from unused glass on Castiel’s map, to _give in_. 

Castiel crossed his arms and leaned against the wall instead.

Michael sighed and put his glass down. “Are you sure this whole thing isn’t _personal_ , Castiel?”

Castiel blinked, the only outward sign of his inward surprise. “I have no idea what you mean, brother.”

“Oh please, you weren’t exactly _subtle_ when you dragged Lord Bonham up here after the party last night.”

Heat crept up from Castiel’s neck to his ears but he said nothing. 

“Look, Castiel, we’re all _thrilled_ that you’ve finally decided to join the human race—” Castiel bristled at the implication and Michael smiled predatorily. Castiel mentally berated himself—Micheal knew that he’d gotten to him. 

“I mean, I sent Balthazar a whole cask of that wine he loves so much after I found out he arranged for that visit from a Temple novice …” Michael continued, nonchalant, “But lovers are treacherous and I’ve seen my fair share of men ruined after dallying with a lover of much higher birth and consequence than your _provincial_ Baron.”

Castiel saw red. He pushed himself off from the wall and towered over Michael. “You should leave.”

“I’m just looking out for you, Castiel,” Michael said, hurt in his eyes but a smirk on his lips, “And for the kingdom.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Fine,” Michael said and drained his wine glass. He picked up the bottle and stood up. He was almost to the door before he stopped.

“Oh Castiel, before I forget,” Michael said, turning over his shoulder, “Are they ‘the real deal’—your ghost hunters?”

“Yes,” Castiel said without hesitation. It was the only information Michael would get out of Castiel willingly.

“Still,” Michael said, tapping a finger on his chin, “you should probably monitor them—make sure they stick to all the ghost hunting ordinances.” 

“What about my other duties that you were so worried about?” Castiel asked icily.

“Zachariah can handle them.”

Castiel balled his hands into fists. “ _Zachariah can’t_ —” 

Michael held up a hand. “That was an order, in case it wasn’t clear.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Castiel bit out. 

Michael arched an eyebrow at him.

“ _Yes, Your Majesty_ ,” Castiel said through gritted teeth.

“Goodnight, Castiel,” Michael said and then disappeared through the door. Castiel grabbed the empty wine glass Michael’d left, surely on purpose to taunt Castiel, and hurled it at the door. It shattered against the oak planking on the back of the doors, showering the floor with tiny shards.

He looked at the mess on the floor and his anger and frustration left him with a sigh. What a stupid thing to do. He’d destroyed something probably worth a farmer’s yearly income without a thought, something purchased with Michael’s burdensome taxes. 

And to make matters worse, there’s no way Michael hadn’t heard the crash. He’d let Michael get under his skin and Michael _knew it_.

Castiel was disgusted with himself. He was supposed to be different from Michael— _better_ than Michael. But it turned out he was just the same temper-tantrum-throwing spoiled royal as his brother.

He walked over to the mess he’d made and starting picking up the larger pieces. He briefly wondered if Dean knew a spell to put it back together, but shame welled up in Castiel at the thought of Dean knowing what he’d done.

He dumped the pieces into the wastebasket instead, one of the shards slicing a thin line down his thumb as it fell into the trash. Drops of blood welled up around the cut and Castiel instinctively put his thumb in his mouth.

_Good_ , a voice whispered. 

Castiel turned around, looking for someone else in the room, but he was alone. He must be hearing things.

_Very good_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to [messier51](http://messier51.tumblr.com) for reading and making suggestions and always supporting me! <3<3<3


End file.
